“Well, keep your mouth shut, there’s a good fellow, until after I have made my report to the Intelligence Officer,” Furley begged. “He’ll be here about four. You don’t mind being about?”
“Not in the least,” Julian promised. “So long as I am home for dinner, my people will be satisfied.”
“I don’t know how you’ll amuse yourself this morning,” Furley observed, “and I’m afraid I sha’n’t be able to get out for the flighting this evening.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Julian begged. “Remember that I am practically at home. It’s only three miles to the Hall from here so you mustn’t look upon me as an ordinary guest. I am going for a tramp in a few minutes.”
“Lucky chap!” Furley declared enviously. “Sunshine like this makes one feel as though one were on the Riviera instead of in Norfolk. Shall you visit the scene of your adventure?”
“I may,” Julian answered thoughtfully. “The instinct of the sleuthhound is beginning to stir in me. There is no telling how far it may lead.”
Julian started on his tramp about half an hour later. He paused first at a bend in the road, about fifty yards down, and stepped up close to the hedge.
“The instinct of the sleuthhound,” he said to himself, “is all very well, but why on earth haven’t I told Furley about the car?”
He paused to consider the matter, conscious only of the fact that each time he had opened his lips to mention it, he had felt a marked but purposeless disinclination to do so. He consoled himself now with the reflection that the information would be more or less valueless until the afternoon, and he forthwith proceeded upon the investigation which he had planned out.
The road was still muddy, and the track of the tyres, which were of somewhat peculiar pattern, clearly visible. He followed it along the road for a matter of a mile and a half. Then he came to a standstill before a plain oak gate and was conscious of a distinct shock. On the top bar of the gate was painted in white letters.